


A Pirate's Life

by ceallaig



Category: Return to Treasure Island (TV), poldark
Genre: DarkHawk, M/M, Pirate!AU, swordfighting as foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 10:27:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4825577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceallaig/pseuds/ceallaig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the Summer Fandom Raffle Exchange, prompt #52: Pirates attack a ship laden with treasure, but the young captain discovers the greatest treasure aboard the other ship is the captive prince hiding below deck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Pirate's Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [My_Trex_has_fleas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Trex_has_fleas/gifts), [Linane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linane/gifts).



> I may have taken it a bit far afield from the original idea of the prompt, but I had a good time with it, and I hope you will too. (Also, sorry no sexytimes in this one, but it just didn't quite fit. Perhaps if there is a sequel....)
> 
> This went up minutes before the raffle deadline, so there has been NO proofing done. If I've screwed something up,please let me know! 
> 
> This is gifted to Linane, for her wonderful idea about the raffle, and to T_rex, who dragged me into the DarkHawk fandom. Come on in, the water's fine!

“The Kerry Dancing is secured, Captain,” the first mate announced. “There was one man we found below decks, but I don’t think he’s crew. Looks more like a toff, and he didn’t put up no fight.”

“Bring him aboard under guard and in irons. I’ve seen more than one toff who could hamstring a man given a chance. I’ll talk to him when I’m done here.”

“Aye, sir.” 

Captain Jim Hawkins, master of the good ship Ragamuffin, surveyed what was left of the crew of the captured Kerry Dancing. The eyes on him carried expressions ranging from interest to hostility to abject fear. He was not much above middle height, and young, but there was something in his bearing and the set of his jaw that commanded respect. And the captured crew had seen what a demon he was with a pistol and cutlass in his hands, and how quick his own crew was to jump at his orders. What was to be their fate, they wondered.

Little was known of Hawkins before the Ragamuffin began plundering the seas three years earlier. Survivors told conflicting stories—some painted him as ruthless and cold-blooded, sacking ships with no regard to anyone’s life, including his own; other tales had him as a latter-day Robin Hood, with mysterious gifts of money and goods left on the doorsteps of orphanages and the homes of sailors’ widows; a man who could carouse the nights away only to sail off at tide turn, clear blue eyes fixed on the horizon; a man who holed up in his cabin, happier with a book and a glass of madeira than a wench and a flagon of rum. He was judge, jury, and executioner to any man old enough to wield a weapon against him, but women were under his protection, from the lowest doxy to the highest lady--wandering or abusive hands had been known to wander away from their owners’ wrists thanks to his blade. 

“You men fought well, and valiantly, and you are still standing. Some of you are born and bred to the sea; some of you were taken by press gangs, and others came to the sea for other reasons. None of those matter now—as of this moment, you are free to do as you wish. The Kerry Dancing will need a crew to take her to port, and hands that already know her would be welcome. When we reach port, you will have the choice to stay with the Ragamuffin, or leave with a fair wage in your pocket for your work. If you can’t sail under a pirate’s colors you’ll make the trip in the brig. Not the most elegant of accommodations.” The slight smile was feral. “The choice is yours. You sign on with me, you are a part of the crew for as long as you wish to be. But know this: any treachery will be dealt with, and any man who lifts a hand against me or mine will die. That is a promise, and one I assure you my crew and I can keep.”

A growl issued from a man in an officer’s uniform. “As if I’d sail under pirate scum…thieving bastard!” A knife flashed, but never found its intended mark. The sharp report of a pistol in a rock-steady hand, and the man fell, surprise etched for eternity in the bloodied face. Hawkins lowered the pistol, looked down at the man with an unreadable expression, then signaled two of his crewmen. A heave, a splash, and it was done. 

“He made his decision. Now comes the time for yours,” Hawkins said, replacing the pistol in his belt. “What say you?”

There was silence for a moment, then the Kerry Dancing’s master stepped forward. The rents and bloodstains on what was left of his uniform attested to his battle prowess, but despite the wounds and obvious exhaustion he stood tall and proud. “The wounded—what happens to them?”

“They are being cared for as we speak, Captain Thornton, by your physician and ours. You will be allowed to see them later; for now you will have to accept my word. When and if they recover, they will be given the same choice.”

The captain nodded. “You have my thanks. As for myself, I believe I will be more comfortable in your brig than in your service, Captain. You have my word there will be no treachery on my part during the voyage, but if we meet again one day we will cross blades.”

“I look forward to that, sir. Will any of you join your captain?” he asked the rest of the captives. Two other men stepped forward with a cautious glance at the blades surrounding them, and the three were herded away. “Anyone else?”

One crewman huffed out a laugh. “All wages spend the same, no matter whose hand they come from. You won’t find hands better with a sail, or feet surer in the riggings. Where do I make my mark?”

Hawkins left his clerk in charge of signing up the men who wished it, and assigned a crew to look after the captured vessel. The quartermaster was set to making a full inventory of the Kerry Dancing’s cargo, and by the looks of it, there would be a fine profit at the next port. With all hands busy with their tasks, Hawkins turned to his first mate. “Where is our…guest?”  
____

“You’ll get no ransom for me, you know.” Ross Poldark was sitting in chains on a water barrel in the Ragamuffin’s stern, but his indolent smile would not have seemed out of place in a gentleman’s club in London. “There won’t be a farthing from my uncle to get me back, but you could negotiate with my cousin—he might pay you a pretty sum to dump me overboard. That’s if he hasn’t lost it all at the gaming tables by now.”

“What does your cousin have against you?” Hawkins leaned against the ship railing, watching for any signs of fear or even uncertainty, but there were none. Either this Poldark had ice in his veins instead of blood, or he truly did not care what happened to him. Either way, he was intriguing.

“Oh, just the fact that I was engaged to the woman he wanted to marry. I was on my way home to do just that when the ship was taken, in fact.”

“My felicitations.”

“Save them. It wasn’t my choice to be engaged to her, or she to me, nor was it my choice to come home. My father arranged all of that before he died. I’ve no interest in carrying on the family name. Much good has it ever done me.” Now Hawkins was starting to see the real man beneath the careful façade, a man whose future was decided by others with no regard for his own wishes. This man he could understand all too well.

“So no love lost between you and your fiancée, I take it?”

“She was to marry an old and respected name. I was to marry a fortune, payable upon the birth of an heir. It was a business merger, nothing more, and not one I looked forward to finalizing. I did my level best to put myself in harm’s way in the colonies, but this was the worst I got for it.” One finger traced the scar down the left side of his face, a still-livid scar that narrowly missed his eye. Currently those eyes were the color of good whiskey, but Hawkins found himself wondering what they looked like when Poldark was in the throes of…other emotions. 

Something of his thoughts must have shown in his face, because Poldark’s smile vanished and the whiskey eyes flashed. “And lest you think I might find another way to barter for my life, Captain, think again. I have chosen to share my favors from time to time, but I have never stooped so low as to sell them.” An appraising look came into Poldark’s eyes then, and the tiniest of smiles tipped the edges of his mouth. Hawkins felt himself being undressed by those eyes, and his own blue eyes stared back without blinking. “However, my cousin is not the only gambler in the family. Would you be open to a wager?”

“Depends on the terms of the wager, and the stakes.”

“I propose a duel, Captain. Swords, just the two of us, and your word there will be no interference from your crew. First to five hits; a show of skill, not a fight to the death. If I win, I walk away at the next port, and you spread the word that I was killed when the ship was taken. If you win, I will find a way to pay your ransom in whatever coin you choose.”

“An interesting offer. But do you think it’s wise to cross blades with a pirate, Mr. Poldark?”

“My father insisted on my learning all the skills a gentleman should have, and only the best fencing masters would do.”

“You may find that a match in a fencing studio is a far cry from facing a man who isn’t bound by such niceties as rules.”

The smile widened. “They didn’t bother with rules much in the colonies, either. I’ve done my time wearing the King’s colors, sir. I’ve fought for my life before and won.”

“Considering that you think so little of your life, I wonder that you bothered to fight for it.”

“Once again, I may choose to give up something, but no one is allowed to take it from me.” 

Hawkins found himself smiling back. There was no boasting or bravado in Poldark’s tone, only a simple statement of fact. There was little in the world deadlier than a man who felt he had nothing to lose. “Very well, then—I will attend to my ship and my men, then we will meet and settle this. Until then, you will join the others in the brig. My apologies, but there is nowhere else to put you without an extra guard. All hands will be needed for clean up and repair.”

“I understand. I look forward to our meeting.” 

Poldark rose from the barrel, sketched a bow that could have been insolent but just missed the mark, and allowed himself to be led off. Hawkins watched him go, the smile still on his lips but a frown between his eyes. It would be an interesting duel—just how interesting remained to be seen. 

He turned at the lumbering step behind him. “Repairs are under way, Captain,” the first mate reported. “We didn’t get hit too bad, and we ain’t lost any crew yet. If the rot don’t set into any of the wounds, we won’t, either. And the haul looks like a good’un. The crew’ll be celebrating tonight.”

“Break out any stores of food and drink from the Kerry Dancing and share some out tonight. Not too much, mind—I don’t need men unfit for duty in the morning, but they deserve a good evening. They fought well.”

“What d’you make of the toff?”

Hawkins’ eyes were narrowed and dark, but the smile lingered. “I’m not quite sure yet, but I expect I’ll figure it out soon.”  
_____

It was late afternoon of the next day before the deck was cleared enough for the contest. It wasn’t strictly fair to call it a duel, Hawkins decided—this wasn’t an affair of honor, or a fight to the death. It was a pitting of two men’s strengths against each other, with the better skills to prevail. He had full confidence in his own, and found himself looking forward to testing the other’s far more than he expected.

Poldark was brought from the brig, eyes squinting against the sun after his stay in darkness. “Where are your men, Captain?”

“Most of them are aboard the Kerry Dancing for the duration. She took more damage than the Ragamuffin, and there is still work to be done. The rest are about their duties below decks or in the rigging. I gave you my word there would be no interference from them, and there will not be. I cannot, however, guarantee that there will not be spyglasses trained on us the entire time. If for no other reason than to settle any wagers that might arise.”

“Would your crew bet against you?” Poldark asked, mouth quirking up in amusement.

“No; they’d be more likely to bet on just how long it will take me to best you,” Hawkins said, smiling. He watched the other man rub his eyes and blink several times, then roll his shoulders to relieve the kinks in them. “Once again I apologize for the accommodations.”

“Oh, I’ve been in far worse, I assure you. Shall we get on with this?”

“When you’ve had a few minutes to adjust. While you’re doing that, would you care to choose your weapon?” Hawkins opened a long slim case to reveal a matched pair of dueling swords, tapered blades gleaming in the afternoon sun. The loop-handled hilts were blackened, with a gold sword knot that winked when it caught the light. They had been crafted by a master and either had never been used or had been meticulously maintained. 

Poldark’s thick eyebrows rose. “You keep a set of smallswords on hand for duels, Captain? You surprise me.”

“No, these were liberated from Captain Thornton’s cabin. Considering that he vowed to kill me if we met again, I thought it prudent to bring them here. And since neither of us has used them, there will be no unfair advantage. So try them both, and choose whichever one you like.”

“Very gracious of you, Captain.” Poldark shucked out of his soiled coat and removed his equally grimy neckcloth, tossing them both to the nearest corner. Long fingers reached for one of the blades, hefting it and getting the feel for its weight and balance. His practice swings were sure and steady, and then he repeated the actions with the second blade. Hawkins watched him, his mind divided between admiration for the power and grace on display, and analyzing the movements for any possible flaw or weakness.

“I can’t find fault with either of them;” Poldark finally pronounced. “If you’ve no preference, Captain, this will do as well as the other.”

Hawkins shed his own coat and took out the second blade. He set the case aside, giving the sword a few swings of his own. It was a beautifully crafted piece, and it looked as though Poldark would be a worthy opponent to test it on. “Are you ready, sir?”

“Ready or not, you’ve been more than fair.”

The combatants saluted each other with a flourish, and the clang of steel against steel rent the air. There was a flurry of thrusts and parries, each man taking the other’s measure, and then the contest began in earnest. Poldark scored two hits off Hawkins in quick succession, light taps with the blunt side of the blade. His satisfied smirk faded in the next few moments when the smaller and more agile Hawkins ducked under Poldark’s longer reach, leaving a tear on one sleeve and a tiny blood spot on the other. He danced back before the taller man could retaliate, and waited with sword at the ready as Poldark examined his shirt.

“You do know this is the only shirt I have at the moment?” Poldark said, dark brows pulled into an ominous frown.

“I’ll have one of my men check your cabin for your baggage. Do you yield?”

In answer, Poldark’s sword flashed up, and Hawkins barely had time to parry. There were no further words, or extra breath for any, for the next few moments. Hawkins once more shortened the distance, delivering a slap with the flat of his blade on Poldark’s thigh, earning him a muffled oath and a glare. Poldark pushed the captain back with a snarl, pinning him to a mast with the point of his blade through Hawkins’ shirt, edge barely grazing the skin beneath. “Now we’re even,” he grated, face coming in close enough for Hawkins to see that the whiskey eyes had darkened to teak.

A laugh bubbled up from Hawkins’ chest, and something stirred inside him that had lain dormant for far too long. “I don’t think so,” he murmured, and bit the end of the nose thrust into his face.

Poldark jerked back with a yelp, pulling his sword free of the mast in the process. “What the bloody hell…” was all he managed to get out before a boot was planted squarely into his stomach, thrusting him backward. He landed sprawling on the deck, sword clattering out of his reach. The point of Hawkins’ blade flashed into his vision, an inch away from his still-smarting nose. “I believe that’s five,” the captain said, gaze unwavering.

“How do you figure that?” Poldark asked, outraged. 

“The nose bite, and the kick. That’s four and five. It’s your own fault for not specifying how the hits were to be delivered.”

“You cheating bastard!”

Hawkins smiled. “I did warn you about the rules, or rather the lack of them. So, Mr. Poldark, do you yield?”

The teak eyes faded back to whiskey again, and there was a hint of a smile gracing Poldark’s lips. “Give me a hand up,” he requested, and waited until the pirate’s blade was down to sweep a strong foot forward and to the side, hooking it behind one of Hawkins’ ankles and landing him on the deck with a grunt of surprise. Poldark leapt to his feet, retrieved his sword, and the captain found himself looking up a length of steel poised over his heart. “I will concede to four, Captain, but the fifth point you will have to fight for.” He took a step back as Hawkins rose from the deck and took a deep breath. Shoving bright curls out of his eyes with his free hand, Hawkins set his shoulders, and the contest began anew.

It was Hawkins’ intimate knowledge of his ship that turned the tide—every uneven board, the placement of every rope and tool, even the way the sun hit the ship’s fittings at certain times of the day. There was a flash of reflection off polished brass as the ship bobbed, jostled by a passing ripple, and Poldark blinked, his attention diverted for a fraction of a second. It was all the distraction Hawkins needed, and the point of his blade swooped and rested with the barest of touches against the taller man’s throat. “Five,” he said as Poldark went stock-still, scarcely seeming to breathe. “Do you yield, sir?”

There was amusement in the dark eyes, and something more primal, something that Hawkins knew was in his own eyes, and coursing through the rest of him. Poldark took a careful step back, and presented his sword hilt-first to Hawkins. “I do, Captain.”

There was a distant chorus of shouts and curses from the crew aboard the Kerry Dancing, and Hawkins was certain that money was changing hands. None of that mattered at that moment; blue eyes were focused on brown, and the world was condensed down to a few feet of deck under a fading afternoon sun. Poldark finally broke the silence. “So, you have won the wager--what ransom would you have of me, Captain?” 

“Your service for one year. You have proved you can fight, and fight dirty if need be; can you also sail?”

Poldark smiled, and it was a genuine one this time, no insolence or artifice. “I was born and raised in Cornwall, sir—I can handle a boat as well as any man, and what I don’t know I can learn.”

“You will join my crew for one year. At the end of that time, you are free to leave or to stay on as you wish. Word will be put about that Ross Poldark is no more. I am sure your fiancée will be heartbroken to hear that you died of wounds received when your ship was taken, but your cousin will be there to sustain her. And perhaps it will ease her grief to know that you passed with her name on your lips.”

Poldark’s bark of laughter pulled an answering smile out of Hawkins. “That’s doing it up a bit brown.”

Hawkins shrugged as he replaced the swords in their case. “Well, we could just say that one of my crew shanked you and dumped you overboard.”

“Now that, she might well believe. It’s too bad I will not be able to wish Elizabeth and Francis joy—I’m sure they’ll raise a better Poldark heir than I ever would have.” The smile widened. “So I am indeed free. You have my gratitude, Captain Hawkins.” A pause, then: “Is fighting and sailing all the service I will be providing?”

“That will be your choice to make. I will take no pleasure given unwillingly, but I would not be averse to getting to know you better. From there, we shall see where it leads us.” Hawkins hefted the sword case under one arm, and held out the other hand out to Poldark. “So do you think you might fancy a pirate’s life, sir?”

The smile was blazing, and the hand that grasped his was firm and warm. “I think I might grow to fancy a pirate’s life very much indeed.”


End file.
